Fiddlehead

“So what do you bring to the table, Miss Haymes?” Grant asked, because he knew better than anyone that political bargaining was just another way of saying “gambling.”

“I bring the end of the South’s rebellion. I bring the end of your war—thanks to a weapon the likes of which the world has not yet seen.”

“We’ve already got one of those—a submarine we’ve fished out of New Orleans. Our engineers are having a devil of a time with it, but they say exactly what you’re saying: It could end the war, reestablish the Anaconda plan, choke off their supplies at last.”

A flicker of a

She wasn’t entirely wrong, and that was the only reason Grant didn’t interrupt.

Since no one else interrupted, either, she went on. “I can bring you something better. Something faster, and more powerful. Something tested, proven, and catastrophic—something that could end the war in a single battle, if the battle is chosen wisely. Or a single target, depending on your personal commitment to the war’s conclusion.

“I will provide you with this weapon, and it will cost you nothing.”

“Oh, it’ll cost us something,” Simms growled.

“Nothing you value,” she clarified. “I ask for amnesty and immunity with regards to any charges resulting from the Rossville incident in 1878, so that when the Union is ultimately restored, I can rejoin it with a clean slate. No charges, no threats—just the chance to begin again.”

“Without a cloud hanging over you?” Simms asked, almost as rude sober as Grant could be while drinking. “That’s what it was, am I correct? Or that’s how I’ve heard it described.”

Grant didn’t have time to hide his confusion. “A cloud?”

“Of gas. Poisonous gas, used on our soldiers. One witness said it looked like an enormous yellow cloud, heavy enough to settle across the compound and kill everyone who breathed it.”

Without so much as a penitent lowering of her eyes, Katharine Haymes replied, “Not a bad assessment. That is what it looks like to the uninformed observer, yes—a yellow cloud. But whatever it looks like, Fort Chattanooga demanded a field test, and you can’t seriously think that they would allow me to test it on Confederate soldiers. They were the ones who decided to use prisoners, not me. And once the results hit the papers and telegraph wires, they needed someone to blame for the breach in wartime protocol, so they picked me. The weapon was designed with my money, in my factory, with my scientists and developers. My name was attached from start to finish. I was an easy scapegoat.”

The president found it very difficult to believe that this woman had been anyone’s scapegoat; she struck him as the kind of person who used other people, not the reverse. But she was a woman, it was true; and she was a woman with money, and he’d known plenty of men who didn’t like that combination. He mustered a small sliver of doubt, only to feel it wither and crumble.

She continued: “I know all too well what the Union thinks of me now, but none of it was my call. I want to make clear that I’m an ally, and I was an American before I was ever declared a Confederate. That’s why I’m requesting formal amnesty.”

She sighed, and made a visible effort to soften herself. “As you must know, it can be difficult for an unmarried woman to survive in this world, in this war. While my father was alive, I could rely on him—never my mother, who passed away when I was a child. So you see? I’ve been alone, without guidance or protection for all of my life. And I’ll be the first to admit I’ve made mistakes. Plenty of them, if you want the truth. But I refuse to allow this one to haunt me through the reconstruction of my nation. I am a patriot, Mr. President, but I have fought for my own survival long enough. It’s time for me to fight for my country: the United States of America.”

“That’s a pretty way of saying you don’t want to go to prison.” He looked down at his glass. It was empty. He couldn’t remember having taken a single swallow.

“Take it as you like. But I’d like to throw my weight behind the Union, if the Union will have me. I’ll end your war in a fortnight if you’ll let me take charge of the project, or if you’ll allow Mr. Fowler to pursue it on my behalf, with my assistance.”

“That’s a bold claim.” The way Grant said it was just short of an accusation. She couldn’t possibly do any such thing. Could she?

“It’s a bold program.” She patted Desmond Fowler’s hand. “And it’s a bold man you have on your team, to take such a risk. As for the weapons we’re developing—I could arrange for a demonstration, perhaps. Not soldiers, of course,” she specified. “Maybe dogs, or horses, or—”

Grant was too drunk to keep the horror to himself. “Dear God, woman. If the weapon is half what you claim it is, it ought to be tested in battle—not on dogs, and certainly not horses!”

She smirked at him, and he wanted to punch her—a desire which shamed him even as the thought of it delighted him. The prospect of ru

Fine, then. He wasn’t sure of anything.

“Very well then, Mr. President. I understand your reluctance, and I’m flattered by it. You give me credit for having created something terrible, and I thank you.”

He shuddered. “What an awful thing to say.”

“More awful than war itself?” she asked. “Terrible things are necessary sometimes. One might argue that any means to the end of hostilities might call itself a virtue, no matter how frightful the initial cost. If we kill a few thousand people in the South and they tremble before the Union’s military might … then we might save the lives of tens of thousands more. How many have died already, Mr. President?”

“More than tens of thousands. Hundreds.”

“Hundreds from battle alone, or hundreds more from the disease, terror, and famine that comes in a war’s wake?”

“I could not say.” He did not know.

“But you’ve seen it yourself. You know the war better than anyone, and I do not think that you love it. I believe you want to see it concluded, in order to begin the long work of reconstructing the nation.”

She had him there. “I hate the war. If I could end it tomorrow, I would do so.”

Her smile was both sharper and more frightening than a line of bayonets, and Grant had walked right into it. “Then we do agree after all. I do think we can work together, Mr. President. I’ll end your war if you let me. I’ll give you back your country, in exchange for a clean reputation.”

He shook his head, not to argue with her but because she was asking for more than he could offer. Immunity from prosecution? That was easy enough to come by; he could hand it over with a signature. But should he? He did not believe her when she’d called herself a scapegoat. He did not believe that she’s unknowingly been party to a war crime, and he did not believe that she wanted nothing else from him—nothing at all. But if he asked her now, she’d only lie some more, and he was too drunk to sort out the particulars.

There was nothing else he could say. He could either play along and pretend he was ru

And to think, these men wanted him to run for another term. But he hadn’t fought that, either. He’d missed his chance. And now, he was on a ballot, in a yellow oval, in a white house, in a cage of his own making.